Hiatus
by KarotsaMused
Summary: We had agreed that it was over. But to me, it was just a break. I wasn't expecting to see this. [38, 58]


A/N: Disclaimery stuff: Saiyuki isn't mine. Insert sobbing noises.  
  
This is my response to all the 38 fics out there, just 'cause there seems to be a hell of an influx of 'em due to the Incidents project. I don't knock 38, I just wanted to take it from Gojyo's PoV...everybody seems to have him being 'okay' with it. I didn't like that. Mwahaha.  
  
Warnings: Shounen-ai, obviously, and language. But only a little.  
  
The sections in present tense are a narrative of the morning as it happens, and past tense is inside Gojyo's head as he looks back on what he saw.   
  
Oh, and one more note. I'm SEVENTEEN today! waha! ... Yay for birthdays XD So I should get birthday reviews, right? Riiiiiight? -crickets-  
  
...  
  
They're talking, heads bent over in the sunlight, hair gleaming. One in glasses and the other's got his monocle on, just talking over two cups of coffee. The golden card changes hands, slipped from a wrist into a back pocket. Without touching the brunette's hand first.  
  
.  
  
I wasn't sure I'd seen it, but Hakkai turned pink around the ears. There's only one way to get him to do that. He blushed, insofar as it's possible for him. And I stood there watching like an idiot.  
  
.  
  
The blonde brings his hand back up and rests his chin on it, shrugging apathetically and focusing on the newspaper rumpled on the table. He straightens it out with a flick of one wrist and sets to reading, his chin still on his hand. The brunette leans back in his chair, taking a sip of his coffee. His eyes are trained on the blonde now placidly skimming week-old, coffee-stained articles.  
  
.  
  
I hate how perfect they looked. Like brothers or something. Or better, or worse, a married couple. And I was rooted to the spot, unable to tear my eyes from them. The picture of morning serenity. I don't want to admit that it kind of felt like love.  
  
.  
  
Things come easily between the two of them. A conversation comes slow and soft, while one reads the paper and the other scrutinizes the ceiling. They speak of trivial matters, of when the others are expected to awaken and of how the weather will be later on. As words flow between them, the brunette takes one hand and rests it at the back of the other's neck, his fingers dancing slow circles in the bottommost fringe of golden hair.  
  
.  
  
I didn't think Sanzo would ever voluntarily touch or be touched. By anybody other than Goku, of course, but that's different. That's not the way Goku touches him. That hand was romancing, just telling Sanzo how much it loved to be upon him. Not hungry, just there. I haven't had that since the very same hand woke me up some mornings. I miss that hand.  
  
.  
  
One smiles affectionately at the other; the latter sends a softened look back. The first stays smiling, but the recipient turns again to his newspaper. The fingers continue their slow circles upon his neck. A soft question and a negative answer. The blonde folds the paper in exasperation, disgusted with the dearth of important news. The other only takes another sip of his coffee, knowing trivialities are often just as printworthy as major events.   
  
.  
  
Hakkai -gets- it. That's his problem. He understands far too well. He knows me more than I know me, at least what I've told him. Because what I've told him he thinks about and understands more than I ever could. That's what was frighteningly attractive in the first place. And all those nights with the rain coming down they'd disappear into a room together and Hakkai would understand Sanzo too. It's the same pattern maybe I didn't want to recognize.  
  
.  
  
A soft sound makes them both turn. The brunette rises with a gentle smile, sweeps into the hallway, and shoves a redhead across the hall, slamming the door behind them. The blonde scrapes ineffectually at his sinuses, suddenly afflicted with an intense headache. He hears muffled conversation, two voices not exactly taking turns, not exactly trading words as shoving them between one another. Then, the laughter comes. The door opens and one retreats, while the other returns to his chair and grabs the cup of coffee. It's gone lukewarm.  
  
.  
  
Of course I had to act happy for them. What else could I have done? I wonder if he realized how much time I poured into him, how many nights I slept on the floor. How many times I woke myself up because he was having a nightmare. I wonder if he knows exactly how many decks of cards I destroyed for him. Playing Solitaire for hours to the cadence of his breathing to make sure he was alive. Staying in all the time, hovering around him. Moving his body through the motions he couldn't complete on his own. I fucking stopped -smoking- for him. The worst bit is, he's grateful to me for it. If he had any anger toward me maybe I could be justified here. I just can't help feeling like he's mine.  
  
.  
  
The brunette sets the mug down on the table, sighing a bit. A raised eyebrow from the other is met with a shrug, an unwillingness to share just yet. And then, like it's the most natural thing in the world, the blonde reaches out and takes the other by the hand. He presses the back of it against his cheek and pulls off his glasses with his free hand. The blonde brings his lips to callused, raw knuckles and closes his eyes. The brunette puts his other elbow on the table and rests his forehead on his hand, eyes shut tight against the world.  
  
.  
  
He was like home. He made it home for me, gave me a feeling of comfort. He's got that about him, the 'homey' just radiating out of him. It's not the cleaning or the cooking, though he's fantastic at both. It's the -caring- that got me. I only went out to bring in some money once he woke up. I couldn't leave him alone even before he let me realize I wanted him. And I say that because he was the one that caved first. It never felt like he'd be the sort to fall easy into lust or love or whatever it was. But it doesn't seem to kill him as much. Could be because he's already dead.  
  
.  
  
They aren't tears. There have never been tears. There is only the whispered apology and the eyes shut tight against the world. The blonde snorts and drops the other's hand, getting to his feet and folding the paper under his arm. Before he leaves, however, he drops a hand into the space between the other's shoulders, his fingers dancing slow circles in the bottommost fringe of chocolate hair. The laughter comes again, low and wry. The blonde leaves.  
  
.  
  
It doesn't help as much as it used to, getting drunk. But there's really nothing left for me to do around here. 


End file.
